


You Broke It, You Bought It

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Changing POV, Different First Meetings, John got sooooooo drunk, M/M, Mrs Hudson is a dear, Mycroft is Mycroft - He will never change, Scenes of an intimate nature will eventuate, Sherlock is a manipulative little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: After getting drunk and bowling over some random person in the street, spraining their ankle in the process, John finds himself with a house guest that doesn’t want to go home.Or:Sherlock knows when he has a good thing going.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story after my brother-in-law said to me ‘You broke it, you bought it’ after I made one of his kids cry (it was an accident, I swear. I didn’t realise the poor little dear was so sensitive). It was seriously supposed to be a short little fic. A couple thousand words at most. 
> 
> I suck at short stories. Sorry.
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

John didn’t think he was as drunk as he could be when he stumbled out of the pub, but he was definitely drunker than he had planned to be.

When Bill had rung him up and told him that a bunch of them (them being a group from his platoon, who had been invalided home) were meeting up for drinks at the Hat & Whistle, John had been skeptical.

He had been home for six months, and while he was now working and was living somewhere that wasn’t that god-awful bedsit, he knew he was still a miserable bastard and he couldn’t see how alcohol was going to help that.

But Bill, being Bill, had somehow managed to twist John’s arm, over the phone no less, and that was how John found himself, surprisingly happy, and half limping, half tripping over his cane, into the cold January night.

He was in a good mood.  A _really_ good mood. Such a good mood that his cane, the most cursed object that John owned, suddenly seemed not so bad, and in his drunken mind, he gave a little dance, one foot over the over and a little cock of the hip, ‘ _Da-da-dumm_ ’ humming from his lips as he finished his small routine.  He giggled, and continued to stumble home, not even bothering to try and get a cab in his state.

He did another little two-step shuffle as he hummed out another three note tune. He could be the next Gene Kelly or Fred Upstairs, or Humply...Hempty...Humpty?  John giggled again and started humming Humpty Dumpty. It was as he attempted a small double step and slide, that the night went tits up, and he collided with what he was certain was another person, sending both of them toppling to the ground.

“Goddamn it” came a very unfamiliar voice, and hands pushed John off of the tangled mess of limbs and awkward angles he seemed to be lying atop of.

John rolled to a sitting position and squinted in the dim light to see a man and a coat and an abundance of curls, all tangled up on the ground next to him.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

The man glared at him.  “I was until a moron walked into me.”

John looked around, trying to see said moron, when it slowly dawned on him.

“Oh, you mean me.”

The man glared harded.  “No, I meant the other moron that was trying, and failing, to dance along the street.”

John felt relief wash over him.  He wasn’t the only moron around and was thankfully not responsible for this man’s misfortune.  

Carefully, yet quite awkwardly, John got to his feet with the aid of his cane.  He sighed, it no longer felt like not so bad anymore.

“Well” huffed the man at his feet, pulling John from his melancholy musings.  “Are you going to stare longingly at that bloody stick all night or are you actually going to help me up?”

“Oh, right” was John’s response and he quickly leant the cane against the wall and leant down to help the man stand up. As the man tried to stand up, his leg buckled and a pained hiss left his mouth.  

“Hold up” John said and, making sure the man was supported against the wall, he crouched down and lifted the leg of the man’s trousers up.

“What do you think you are doing?” the man cried, hissing again in pain as he tried to pull his leg away.

“Relax.  I’m a doctor” John stated and continued to gently feel the ankle above the shoe.  

“It’s not broken” John said, standing back up to face the man.  “But there is a gash, and I fear it may be swollen. I can fix it if you like?”

The man narrowed his eyes at John and John stood just that bit taller, determined to prove something for some reason.

“We are in the middle of a dark street, by a dirty alley way and you are drunk.  How, do you propose, are you going to fix it.”

“Easy” John said.  “I don’t live too far away, and there is a first aid kit in flat.  And I’m not drunk.”

The man snorted in disbelief.

“Just a bit tipsy” John stated rather firmly, if a bit slurred.

After a few beats of silence the man took the cane from where it was rested against the wall.  “How far away?” he asked.

“Just around that corner, on Baker Street” John replied and with a smile, led the way, the odd man limping behind on the cane and the other moron nowhere to be seen.

~o~

Sherlock lay on the couch, leg propped up on a ridiculous amount of cushions (seriously, who owns this many cushions?) and listened to the snoring coming down the hall, from the man’s - _John’s_ \- bedroom.  It was the snore that only a drunk person could produce and it was irritating the hell out of Sherlock.  

The night _had_ been going well.  Well, as well as a night could go when one was a recovering drug-addict, three months out of rehab and avoiding one’s older, annoying, interfering brother.  It had been five hours since he had slipped out of Mycroft’s house and snuck away. There had been many missed phone calls and text messages, but Sherlock had shut his phone off so he didn’t have to put up with the constant vibrating in his pocket.

He was on his way to check in with some of his homeless network when he had been bowled over by a drunk doctor trying to do what appeared to be quickstep.  Needless to say, the dance was not successful, nor was the trip to Sherlock’s destination. Actually, it would be fair to say that both had been total failures.

Now, here he was, stuck in some strange man’s flat with his left ankle bandaged a tad too tightly, propped up on a mountain of cushions, and not able to go to sleep because of the thundering growling that was just a decibel short of rattling the goddamn windows.

Sherlock sat up and regretted it instantly when he yanked one of the cushions out from under his foot.  Ignoring the pain as well as he could, he laid back down and squashed the pillow over his head, hoping it would muffle the sound of drunk moron.  It did, but only marginally. He threw the pillow away, deeming it not worth the effort of holding it there.

As soon as he could stand on his ankle enough to walk down the stairs, he was leaving this place and it’s resident idiot.

Seriously, the man hadn’t managed to sober up at all on the _not-so short_ walk.  Fifteen minutes, it had taken to hobble back to John’s flat. The man had cheerily chatted the entire way, talking about someone called Bill, and muttering about inconsiderate morons who didn’t stop to help.  Then, once they reached the flat, there were the stairs. Seventeen of the blasted things. John had offered to carry Sherlock up, but the glare that Sherlock shot him soon squashed that idea.

True to his word, John did have a first aid kit and, unlike the one Sherlock used to have, it was fully stocked and usable.  

Sherlock wasn’t sure how he managed it in his state, but John did manage to clean and dress the gash on his leg and strap his swollen ankle, after icing it for a bit.  He had then propped Sherlock on the couch, muttering something about milk in the cupboard and coffee in the fridge and had then stumbled to bed, turning out all the lights as he went.  

Three hours ago.  That was how long Sherlock had lain there and listened to the man snore.  Rather loudly. About forty-five minutes after it had started, Sherlock had been tempted to turn his phone on and call Mycroft to come pick him up.  The idea had been dismissed as soon as he had his phone in his hand.

An hour after that, he had tried standing up, hoping to hobble away.  That had been a bad idea indeed. The ankle was well and truly sprained.  

So it was then that Sherlock resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck here for the night, so he lay back and stared up at the ceiling, hoping a trip into his mind palace would speed things along.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Wakes up with a hang over and an unwanted guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than the first, for the simple fact that this story was written as one long story. I have just broken it up into days, so some will be longer, some will be shorter. The entire thing is practically written, I am just writing the ending so I will hopefully be able to post every couple of days. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone that has read, kudosed, bookmarked and commented. You make me feel loved. <3

~~~~~~~~~~

It was around six-thirty that Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts, by a woman’s voice, asking if he’d like a cup of tea.

He blinked back into the land of consciousness, reminding himself not to delve into his mind palace with his eyes open - and his gaze fell on a small woman, clearly in her late sixties, possibly older.

“You look like you could do with some crumpets too.  You wait there and keep resting your leg. I’ll be right back, dear” and with that, she was gone, making herself busy in the kitchen. “With honey, if you have it” Sherlock called out.  An affirmative hum was heard from the other room and Sherlock thought that maybe this set up wouldn’t be so bad after all.

~o~

John woke with a groan and tried to spit out whatever had died in his mouth.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t budging. Instead he rolled over and slowly sat up. A glance at his clock told him that it was nearly midday.  Another groan left his mouth. He was going to fucking kill Bill the next time he saw him. 

His plan had been to go and have one or two drinks, to seem sociable and then come back home and continue wallowing in self pity, alone.  He most definitely hadn’t planned to get so shit-faced that he didn’t even remember getting home. Well, at least he was alone. 

Very slowly, trying very hard to ignore the spinning room, John got out of bed and looked around for his cane. Spotting it on the floor, not too far away, John groaned.  It was going to be a pain in the arse picking it up. The pressure on his full bladder wasn’t going to make things any easier. Eventually, he managed to get the cane off of the floor, without falling flat on his arse or wetting his pants and he headed to the bathroom, pissing and brushing his teeth, before donning his robe and limping out to the kitchen.

He was halfway down the hall when he stopped.  There were voices coming from the front of the flat.  One he could recognise. Mrs Hudson’s titter was recognisable anywhere, but the other voice, much deeper and younger and definitely more masculine than his landlady’s, was completely new.  

Making sure his robe was pulled tightly around his body and tied securely, John made his way out to the living room.  What he found was most definitely not what he was expecting.

Mrs Hudson was sitting in the grey leather armchair, a cup of tea in hand.  There was nothing unusual about this. She often sat there while having tea with John.  What was unexpected was the man, whom the voice obviously belonged to. He was sitting with his legs along the couch, the left one propped on what looked like every cushion in 221 B and he had a blanket over his legs.  He was also nursing a cup of tea, and by the looks of it, had devoured all of John’s Jammie Dodgers and pretzels. 

Well, there went his hangover breakfast.  

“Ah, Doctor Watson.  You’re up. How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked, looking at him with that motherly concern she had mastered so well, despite not having children of her own.  

“Umm, been better.  Sorry, but who…”

“Oh, well, at least you had a good time” she smiled and then looked towards the stranger.  

“I’ve just been talking to Sherlock, here…”

“...Sherlock?...”

“And he was telling me how you two met. It is all very charming.”

“Probably not” John muttered under his breath, not that she was listening.  She was now turning her attentions back to the man, laid up on his couch. Apparently his name was Sherlock?  What sort of name was Sherlock? And who decides that it is perfectly reasonable to kip on some random stranger’s couch?  How did he even get here? 

John pulled himself out of his musings and looked back at the man, surprised to see the him looking at him as if he were studying John. Mrs Hudson seemed oblivious to everything except what she was prattling on, which was, as John found out, after he could finally look away from his guest and over to his landlady, was the married ones next door.  

_Oh_ , the married ones… “Mrs Hudson, this man…”   
“Sherlock” the man cut in, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“...Sherlock and I…”

“Oh, it’s fine dear.  You know me. I’m happy so long as you are.  Now, I need to get going. I told Mrs Turner I’d share a cab with her to bridge this afternoon, and if we want to get there in time to make sure Beryl Sanders doesn’t fiddle with the deck again, I have to leave now.”

And before John could get out that Sherlock and he were not even acquaintances, let alone anything more, the woman was walking out the door calling back that she wouldn’t be up to bother them later that night.

John stood there, looking where his landlady had been, and a sigh left his mouth.  He then looked back at the man sprawled out on his couch and tried to think of the most polite way of getting the stranger out of his flat.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was looking rather comfortable on John’s couch, all wrapped up in John’s blanket, with a cup of tea.

Well, this was going to be awkward.

~o~

Mrs Hudson had been a delight.  Very motherly like, but without the authority to make him do things, like pick up his dirty socks or go back home to Mycroft.  She had kept him fed and plied with tea, only complaining once about the amount of sugar he took, all morning. She sat for tolerable amounts of time, before hurrying off downstairs, only to come back up to flat B an hour or so later with more baked goods and she had provided a wonderful insight into the man who had brought him home last night.

Doctor John Watson, ex-soldier.  That much had been apparent last night.  Sherlock had deduced that John had been an army medic, recently invalided out.  He had a shoulder injury, a psychosomatic limp and no close family. What he hadn’t been able to figure out was where he had been stationed.

Mrs Hudson had filled in that information, telling him that John had been back in London for six months and had been living at Baker Street for three.  He had been a surgeon, but his injuries in the army had seen an end to that, so now he worked as a GP at the clinic on on Lodge Road, by the Wellington Hospital.  Sherlock was familiar with the hospital. He had been kicked out of their mortuary no less than five times in the past eleven months.

He had also learnt that John’s sister (not brother) wasn’t a very nice person, and that John more or less kept to himself.  

From his perch on the couch Sherlock had been able to deduce other things about the ex-army doctor.

John was very fond of Chinese takeaway.  He liked dull crime novels and watched even worse spy movies.  The man had an unhealthy, yet completely understandable obsession with Jammie Dodgers and horrid taste in fashion.

Over all, the man was vastly ordinary.  

But, he did have very suitable living quarters that were quiet, warm and stocked with tea.  During the day, it would be empty, due to the fact that the man was at work and during the evening, Sherlock had no doubt that he could  _ encourage _ the man to go out with friends.  Best of all, there was no Mycroft.  

This would do nicely for a few days of reprieve from his irritating brother, and there would be no way that he would find Sherlock here.  At least, not for a few days. All Sherlock had to do was convince John that he could stay here until that happened. It should be easy. The man seemed fairly simple minded.  

Once John had finally managed to get out of bed and join the living, Sherlock reassured himself that convincing him was going to be easy.  All he had to do was play on the doctor’s good nature and propensity for feeling guilty.

This was going to be child’s play

~o~

“The bacon sandwiches, from the cafe’ next door, will have an acceptable level of grease to help combat your hangover” Sherlock stated.  Not what John had been expecting.

“That’s actually a myth” John responded.  There was no medical proof, whatsoever, that greasy foods helped hangovers, but now that it had been mentioned, a bacon sandwich sounded great.  Just as soon as he could get this man off of his couch.

“How’s the leg?” John asked, letting the doctor in him take over, and easing into the eviction.

“Still aches, still swollen” the man replied, sounding bored.  “I’ll survive though. Doubt there will be any lasting damage.”

John gave a short nod.  If it was just a sprain, which he was sure it was, then the man was right.  

“Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked next.  John felt this to be a polite, yet obvious way to get the man to leave.

Apparently Sherlock didn’t think so.

“No, but a hand to the loo would be wonderful.”

“I’m sorry?” Again, that was not the response John was expecting.  John had thought the man would have gotten the hint and have taken John up on his offer of calling someone.  

“I’ve been sitting on this couch all night and all day.  I would have asked Mrs Hudson, but she has a hip, you know.”

John just stared, trying to figure out how this had become his day.  God, he really wished he could remember last night.

“I need to void, Doctor Watson, and as your very hospitable landlady has been giving me tea every hour and a half for the past six hours, it is quite urgent. I would try going myself, but the last time I tried standing, I nearly collapsed.  If you could just give me a hand to the bathroom door, I am sure I could manage the rest myself.”

John suddenly remembered his manners and limped over to the couch.  It took some manoeuvring, what with John’s limp and Sherlock’s limp, but they did manage to get to the bathroom without one, or both of them ending up on the floor. 

“You know” Sherlock said on the way back from the bathroom.  “This would be much easier if you would put your cane down. It would leave both of your hands free.”

John scowled.  Now that was just rude.  “Are you sure there is no-one I can call for you” John said in lieu of an answer.  He really wanted this man out of his flat. “A friend, sibling, girlfriend…”

“No, definitely not and not my area” Sherlock replied, completely oblivious to the fact that he was not welcome to stay in John’s home.  It was then that a thought struck John.

“I know a person” he said, trying to be delicate.  Sometimes the homeless could be very touchy about their situation.  “They can organise a dry and warm place for you to sleep for…” John stopped when the loud and drawn out sigh over-rid his words.

“Listen to the way I speak” Sherlock said.  “Look at the quality of my clothes” he added.  “And, keeping in mind that I have been stuck on your couch since one-thirty this morning, take note of my hygiene.  Do I seem homeless to you?”

John ignored the bit about the way he spoke - plenty of well educated people ended up on the street, but he did take a good look at the man’s clothes.  He then looked to the shoes that had been clumsily pushed under the coffee table and the coat that was hanging up by the door. 

Sherlock was right. No homeless would walk around in clothes like that.  They would get robbed while they slept. John was sure the coat, alone, was more than his monthly rent.  

“Visiting London?” he guessed again hoping to get any clue as to how to get the man out of his flat.

Another sigh, this one sounding extremely disappointed, answered Johns question.

“I have a perfectly fine flat, in Knightsbridge, thank you very much” John tried not to drop Sherlock as he helped the man sit back down on the couch.  Fucking hell. Of course he’d end up with some rich brat on his couch. But why, if he had a perfectly serviceable flat in Knightsbridge, did he insist on hanging around here.

As if he could read John’s mind, Sherlock supplied the answer.  “My flat is much larger than this and has many stairs. Just getting down a short hall to go to the bathroom was a challenge.”

Sherlock swivelled and jiggled until he was sideways again, and then looked expectantly at John.  It took John a few seconds to realise that Sherlock wanted his leg lifted back on the cushions and before he even realised that he was helping, John had gently lifted the limb and made sure it was sat securely on top of the cushions, but not before removing a couple of them.  Seriously, who thought eight cushions was a good idea.

Again, Sherlock proved that he was indeed apt at mindreading.  “I did think that it was an obscene amount of cushions, but you insisted, quite clearly, that the leg needed to be elevated.  I did have to get rid of two of them during the night.”

John closed his eyes.  God, how drunk had he been.  

“I patched you up?” he asked.  John had just assumed that Sherlock had been injured pre-coming to Baker Street.

“You felt it your duty, since you were the one who caused the injury.”

“I what?” John bawlked.  

“Yes, trying to twostep down the street in a rather inebriated state.  You ended up tripping me up with your cane and then felt the need to add to the injury by tumbling onto me, further exacerbating the injury.”

“I am so sorry” was all John could think to say as several things swirled through his mind.  How much had he actually had to drink? Where had this happened? How, if he was so drunk had he managed to patch this man up?  And what, in god’s hell, was he doing trying to dance? He didn’t even attempt that when sober and abled. 

“Anyway, as I was saying” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s inner turmoil.  “My flat is large and there is no one there who will help me. I’m sure it will only be a couple of days until I am ambulant again.  I won’t be much bother. You won’t even know I am here.”

John looked to Sherlock.  Surely he wasn’t suggesting… “I’m sorry” John said, not understanding what was happening.  “But, it just sounded like you were implying that you stay here. At my place. On my couch.  For a few days.”

The silence stretched between them while Sherlock did not deny this and John came to the realisation that that was exactly what had happened.

“No” John shot, standing up.  “Not at all, not happening. I will pay for a taxi for you to get home or to the hospital or wherever, but you cannot stay here.”

“Why on earth not?”

John couldn’t believe his ears.  Was this man for real?

“What do you mean, why not?” John practically cried, his hands tugging at his hair.  “We don’t know a thing about each other. I could be a serial killer or you could be waiting for me to leave so you can rob me broke.”

An imperious snort left Sherlock’s nostrils and John glared his most formidable frown at him.

“Please” Sherlock explained.  “If I were going to rob you blind, I would have done it when you were snoring away last night.”

“I do not snore” John shot back.  Sherlock ignored him.

“And if you are a serial killer, then I am giving up my job as a consulting detective, because clearly, I am no longer any good at it.”

“A consulting detective?”

“Only one in the world.  I invented the position.”

John gave a snort of amusement.  “Of course you did.” If the look on the other man’s face was anything to go by, John’s reaction was not appreciated.

“Have you noticed, yet?” The man sneered.

John was completely thrown by the random question.

“Noticed what?”

“My, god, you’re slow.  Is this normal or is it due to the large quantity of alcohol that is by no doubt still in your system.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you just asking if you could stay here?  At  _ my _ house?” Bloody hell he was a moody little shit.  John would wager that he had never been told no in his life.  Probably had everything handed to him on a silver platter. 

“Not asking” the man replied, shortly.  “Telling. It is your fault I am in this state, you can fix it.”

“And give me one good reason why I should bow down to your blatantly ridiculous commands!”  John was angry now.  _ Fucking Fuming _ .  This man had a right nerve, coming into John’s house, making demands, insulting John and eating all of his bloody Jammie Dodgers.

“Because” Sherlock drawled out, as if speaking to a slow dimwitted child.  “Since I told you I was going to stay, you haven’t once needed to use your cane.”

The ‘ _ Fuck off, you arrogant prick _ ’ instantly died in John’s mouth as he looked down at his legs.  The man was right. He had been standing and pacing, without any pain and without the need of his cane.  And he hadn’t even noticed.

“So” Sherlock said, reclining back on the arm of the chair. “Since you’re heading down to get a bacon sandwich, I’d love a custard tart.”

~o~

Sherlock felt some perverse sort of glee at watching John stomp around, stopping every now and then to test the weight on his leg, before continuing his stomping as he got dressed and gathered up his wallet and keys.

“Without cream, please” Sherlock called as John continued his stomping, out of the flat and down the stairs.  He only just caught the image of John’s middle finger being raised above his head, before he stomped out of view.

Some people were so ungrateful.  Not only had he cured the man of his imaginary limp, but he had also said please.  John didn’t know, just how rare that was.

Sherlock wiggled and rotated his hips until he found a position that was more comfortable and leaned back and thought over the recent events that had led him to his current position.

Mycroft had been unbearable.  It was why he had had to leave his flat.  And since his idiot brother had packed all of Sherlock’s belongings up and cancelled the lease on his flat, Sherlock had had nowhere to go after he had finished his stint in rehab.

Unless he had wanted to go stay with Mummy. 

Sherlock shivered at the thought. Even the resident of this flat was preferable to that.  At least John wouldn’t make him play Yahtzee and gossip about the neighbours. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.

Sherlock had tried to get a flat of his own, but his brother had weaved his black magic and blacklisted Sherlock’s name with every single realtor in London, and possibly further.  He had also limited access to the trust fund and since Sherlock hadn’t had a job since he was twenty-one, he had no form of income to pay the rent, let alone actually survive. So, it was his brother’s house or the streets of London and Sherlock liked clean sheets and access to running hot water too much to take the final option.

But after three months of living under his brothers roof with his brothers rules, and that nagging hag of a housekeeper and Sherlock had finally snapped. Again.  Every time this happened, he would leave and several hours later, his brother would find him and drag him back. 

“ _ Unless you are doing something productive, brother, then you will not wander the streets.  I will not have you falling back into bad habits again, not after last time. Mummy nearly got arrested trying to get back to England again, after she found out about your last relapse.  I dare say, that poor young man will never have the nerve to fly a plane again _ .”

It had been too much.  Lestrade had nothing. There had been nothing on his website and Mycroft had decided that now was a good time to take a three day break.  He had had to get out. It was either that or he was going to commit his own murder to solve and Mycroft was going to be down one housekeeper.  God, that woman was horrendous. It was a good thing she had never had children, they would have been depressed empty shells before they hit puberty.

Somehow, he had managed to evade Mycroft and as dull and irritating as John Watson seemed to be (although, slightly amusing) he was a damn site better than the alternative.  

Sherlock gave it another two days before his brother located him.  Two days of relative peace and quiet, and if he was lucky, of being waited on hand and foot.  If John wouldn’t do it, then his charming landlady had a sympathetic side to her.

Sherlock smiled smugly when he heard John return and start to climb the stairs.  The smile dropped when he saw that the only thing John was holding, was a half eaten bacon sandwich.

~o~

John grit his teeth as Sherlock let out another “That is physically impossible.  That fall wouldn’t have only killed him, but left him shattered. Hitting water at that speed from that height would be like hitting concrete. Do the people who write this drivel know nothing about physics?”

“It is a movie, Sherlock.  Fiction. It’s not supposed to be realistic, it is supposed to be fun.”

John had tried watching Star Wars.  That lasted a whole of two minutes before Sherlock started bitching.  “ _ Why can we hear that ship moving or its lasers firing.  There is no sound in space. What in the hell are we watching _ ?”  After another 20 minutes, John turned it off.

The Matrix lasted three minutes before the fulmination started.  “Why have we suddenly gone into slow motion?” He whined. “ _ Do people these days really need things slowed down so they understand what is happening.  And the way she is holding herself, physically impossible. And now she’s running on the walls! Seriously, this is what passes for entertainment? _ ”

John wasn’t even sure why he thought Skyfall would have been a good idea.  He really didn’t. But it had lasted a blissful 18 minutes before the ranting started and John was convinced that was only because he had threatened to shove the remote control somewhere really uncomfortable if Sherlock didn’t stop his ranting.

“No, this is not fun, John.  This is stupidity.”

“This is because of the custard tart, isn’t it?” John said, hitting the off switch on the remote control, turning the entire TV off.

“No” Sherlock spat.  “This is because that is all unrealistic, utterly ridiculous drivel that is made purely to rot one’s brain.  The cabbage was because of the custard tart.”

John pushed that thought back. It would be a while before he ate cabbage again. “You’re a fucking child, you know that” John said angrily and then changed his mind.  “No, I take that back. At least a child has a goddamned imagination and a concentration span that is longer than two minutes.”

“I’ll have you know, I can concentrate for an interminable amount of time.”

“Yeah, well.  You can concentrate all on your own because I’m having a shower and going to bed” and with that, he picked up his laptop and headed towards the kitchen.

“Leave the laptop” he heard Sherlock demand and John stopped and turned to face his squatter.

“You’re going to sleep.  You don’t need it. I need something to occupy my mind.”

John let out a chuckle.  It wasn’t a happy one.

“No” he said simply.  “If you think you are using my laptop, you can think again.  Plus it’s password protected and I am not giving you my password. You can spend tonight concentrating, on how you’re going to move around on your own, because tomorrow, you are leaving.”

John took pleasure in the haughty look on Sherlock’s face.  It didn’t last long before it fell into one of understanding.

“Oh, is this because you’re going to watch porn?”

John’s irritation grew into petty frustration.  

“No, this is because of the cabbage.”

~o~

Had Sherlock thought that playing to John’s sympathetic side would work, he was wrong.  After coming back from Speedy’s, sans custard tart, Johns mood hadn’t shifted much at all.  

He had stopped stomping, and was no longer angry, but he still avoided Sherlock as much as possible.  

He made sure Sherlock had water and food and the odd cup of tea, and twice more he assisted Sherlock to the toilet.  The second trip had been made in silence because after returning to the couch the first time round, Sherlock had said “See, much easier when you have both hands available.”  Sherlock had been left to lift his own leg onto the pillow and his next request for a cup of tea was denied. 

“Is this how you treat all your patients?  Because I must say, your bedside manner needs some work.”

John had just glared at him and then replied, in a flat tone, “Only the arsehole ones” and had gone back to reading the paper and ignoring Sherlock.

From then on in, John had done his thing and Sherlock had managed to coax John into fetching him a couple of medical journals.  They had been blissfully ignorant of each other, keeping to themselves, in almost silence. That was, until John handed Sherlock a plate of beans on toast and sat down to watch a movie.  

Granted, maybe Sherlock should have kept his comments to himself, but it was absolute nonsense.  It was no wonder the population was so mentally stunted if this was what they exposed themselves to on a regular basis.  

The comment about the porn was probably stepping over the line but it was just being nasty, leaving Sherlock with nothing to do, at quarter past eight in the evening.  No one went to bed that early, at least, no one who was able to tie their own shoelaces.

So, playing to Johns caring side was a no-go.  Clearly, his caring side was abysmally small. Playing on his guilt was also off the table as that had worked for a whole three minutes, and while a guilty look briefly crossed John’s face whenever Sherlock hissed in pain, it never lasted long and sure as hell didn’t increase his sympathy to Sherlock’s plight.

Now, John was threatening to kick him out tomorrow, and after it had taken a relatively short amount of time to convince him to let Sherlock stay.  His previous tactics would not work again. This time, Sherlock was going to have to play dirty.

Sherlock ran through his plan several times, making sure he had thought of everything, and then let himself sleep for a few hours.  Thankfully, John’s snores the previous night had been a result of the alcohol, as Sherlock had predicted, so it was easy to go to sleep this time round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I got rid of Johns limp really easily, but I didn't want to spend too much time on it. It's not the focus of the story after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys start to warm up to each other.

~~~~~~~~~~

When he woke up, Sherlock checked his watch.  He had five minutes to get things ready.

He pulled himself into a half sitting position and ran his hands through his hair to make it look worse than what he was sure it already did.  He rubbed his eyes, making them puffy and then sat back and waited.

As predicted, at 6:30 feet could be heard coming up the stairs.  

“Oh, good morning Sherlock” Mrs Hudson said, coming into the room with a tray.  Sherlock was happy to see crumpets again, and a pot of honey, but kept his emotion to himself.  To be happy would not help his cause.

“Goodness me, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look terrible. Can I get you anything.”

“No, thank you Mrs Hudson.  And I guess I just didn’t sleep well last night.  I’m sure I look worse than I feel.”

Mrs Hudson sent a sympathetic look, one just like his Mummy would give him when he was younger and had a belly ache.  “Are you in pain. I’m sure Doctor Watson can give you something for it.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No, nothing like that. Just worry, I should think.”

“Worry?”

“Hmmm.  Yes, Doctor Watson has informed me that I need to go home today and I’m not sure how I am going to get around.  My place is quite large and has an awful lot of stairs. More than I would have to deal with here.” Sherlock tried to sound like he was depressed, but putting on a brave front.  It worked.

“Oh, I’m sure there has been some sort of misunderstanding. If you just let John know about your situation, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you staying here a bit longer, you’re no trouble at all.”

Sherlock gave the woman a small pitiful smile.  He should feel bad about playing her like this, but it really was for the greater good.  Or, at least,  _ his _ greater good. 

“I did explain, but Doctor Watson has made it quite clear that I am no longer welcome here.”  Sherlock pretended not to hear her little gasp. “But don’t you worry about me, I’m sure it will be fine.  I’ll find a way to cope.”

Mrs Hudson then sat on the coffee table, which had been pulled close to the couch, and placed her hand over his.  “Don’t you worry about a thing dear. I’ll get this sorted out.”

Just then, there was the sound of John making his way to the kitchen.  Mrs Hudson patted his hand one more time and stood up to meet the good doctor before he could make his morning tea.

Sherlock couldn’t hold back the smirk.  That had gone fabulously well.

~o~

John trudged up the stairs.  It had been a long day. He knew it would be.  How could it not, when his landlady had practically ripped him to pieces before he had fully opened his eyes all the way, first thing that morning.

He had then had to assist his  _ guest _ , who was apparently not going home just yet, to the shower and then, offer him clothes, that were two sizes too short. (Thankfully, when Mrs Hudson had suggested that John go to Sherlock’s apartment to get clean clothes of his own, Sherlock had objected immediately, stating that the alarm system would be too complex.)

This had then left John in a mad dash to get to work on time.  He made it with less than a minute to spare. 

Despite the dull patients with their minor problems, John would have been happy to spend more time at work.  He had offered to do overtime, but Sarah had told him to go home, he wasn’t needed at the clinic.

So John went home, stopping at the local Chinese shop on the way to get dinner.  He just ordered two of what he ate. If Sherlock didn’t like it, then Sherlock could go home, many stairs be damned.

When he got up to his flat he stopped in the doorway and stared.  There was Sherlock, still laid out on the couch, tapping away at Johns laptop.

“Where did you get that?”

“Mrs Hudson” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the screen, his fingers continuing their rapid dance over the keyboard.  

John seethed.  He was going to have to have words with his landlady.

“It was password protected” John got out through gritted teeth.  God he wanted to punch something - or someone - right now.

“That’s the second time you have said that and both times you have said as if it is a deterrent” was Sherlock’s answer, his focus still mainly on whatever he was doing on John’s computer.  “It took less than five minutes to get in. And I’m impressed.”

John really didn’t know how to react.  Anger, confusion and something that he feared was insanity, was frolicking through his body, all having a good time fucking with his brain.

“You’re impressed?” he managed to get out.

“Hmmm.  Your history shows very little porn.  I would have thought someone as socially withdrawn as yourself, would have a myriad of pornographic sites in their browser history, but over the last three months you have only visited two sites, five times.  That is admirable for someone who used to be immoderately sexually active, just six months ago.”

“You know, Sherlock, there is a thing called privacy…”

“...Pffft…”

“...And most people respect other people’s…”

“...I’m not most people…”

“...And what do you  _ mean _ immoderately?”

At this, Sherlock finally stopped what he was doing with the laptop and looked to John.

“I mean, you had sex, regularly.  A lot. Some would say excessively, but it wasn’t an addiction.  You just enjoyed and were good at it. That is what I mean by  _ immoderately _ .”

“And how could you possibly know that?” 

John watched as Sherlock took a moment to study John, and John found that he actually didn’t mind it as much as he felt he should.  

“You are a good looking, healthy male in their mid thirties.  Judging by the state of your skin, you have always been good looking, even in your teens and your teeth are naturally straight, so no bad acne or braces. Two things that make young boys self conscious.  

“Clearly in the past few months you have lost weight and muscle tone, but before that you were quite fit.  Photos around the flat tell me that. Rugby at highschool and university, PT in the army. 

“There is a little black book on the mantel, the small tabs all along the opening tell me it is an address book.  I don’t have to be a genius to know why a good looking man would have a little black address book. Very cliche’ of you Doctor Watson. It is well used, very dog-eared.  It has a lot of numbers in it. And you don’t seem the kind to keep numbers if you couldn’t use them. How do I know they are not work numbers? You would keep them in your phone, easy to access whenever you needed them.  Same as close friends. No, those numbers are of people you see occasionally, and only when it suits you. You were confident enough to know that if you called them back, they would not only answer, but agree to go out with you.  It has dust on it though, so lately, it hasn’t been used. Hence the porn sites. But five in three months. You’ve lost your sex drive. Most likely due to your injuries and your loss of surgical skills. I’m sure once you find the right person, you’ll be back in the game in no time at all, so I shouldn’t worry too much about it.”

John was dumbfounded.  All of that had taken less than a minute for Sherlock to spew out and all of it had been correct.  He couldn’t even find it in himself to be pissed that Sherlock had hacked into his laptop.

“That was...amazing” he finally got out.

Sherlock just stared at him. 

“Utterly, brilliant.”

“That’s not what people usually say” Sherlock replied, quietly.

“What do they usually say?”

Sherlock was silent for a bit and then answered.  “Piss off.”

Immediately John broke out into a fit of giggles.  It didn’t take long for Sherlock’s deep chuckle to join him and just like that, things were easier between them.

~o~

In just one evening, things had evened out between them and Sherlock was pleased to find that, once one stopped pissing John off, he could actually be good company. 

The Chinese was a far cry better than the beans on toast from the night before, despite there being no dimsums, and John was simply amazed by Sherlock’s work.  

As Sherlock regaled stories about previous cases he had taken on behalf of the Yard, John couldn’t stop the  _ Brilliant _ and  _ Fantastic _ from flying out his mouth and Sherlock was happy to lap every bit of it up.  It was a nice change from _disappointment_ and _freak_.

Despite John’s appalling fashion sense, that he had clearly copied off of someone’s grandfather, it turned out that John wasn’t just a standard, boring, everyday doctor in the army, either.  He had been trained to work on the front line, being the first there to treat soldiers as they were wounded. 

His taste for danger was worse than Sherlocks for the simple fact that Sherlock dove head first into all sorts of situations in order to solve a problem.  John Watson did so just for the pure hell of it. And it apparently resulted with some rather amusing results.

It was a story that John was telling, which ended in him having to sit in the back of a Jeep on his own, on the way back to base, because something stupid he had done resulted in his uniform being covered in donkey feaces, that Sherlock realised he might be getting in a bit too deep.  As John was telling the story, Sherlock’s overactive imagination was thinking about John (who really was _very_ good looking) in uniform. And then peeling himself out of uniform.

Sherlock must have become too lost in his thoughts as before he knew it, John was standing up and wishing him goodnight, before making his way to the bathroom.

“‘Night” Sherlock called out to John’s retreating back, thankful that his imagination hadn’t been so overactive that it had produced a physical response.  Wasn’t far off of it though. Sherlock scowled at himself and pushed the thought of John in (and out) of his fatigues out of his mind. It was stupid to think of such things.  In a day or two, Sherlock would be going back to Mycroft’s and would probably never see John again.

Sherlock slouched further down on the couch, trying to get comfortable.  He couldn’t. Not only was he not tired, but he had been stuck on this couch for two days, surely he was going to start developing bedsores soon.  With that thought, he wriggled until he was laying on his side, rather than on his back, his ankles awkwardly crossed, so as not to move his injured one so much, and that was when he spotted it.  Johns laptop was still on the coffee table. He hadn’t taken it to bed with him tonight.

Quicker than he had moved since meeting John, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs around, reaching over to grab the laptop.  The rest of night ended up not being as tedious as he thought it was going to be and to show his gratification to John, for leaving him a form of entertainment, he cleared the machine of all junk and viruses and signed John up to a more professional porn site.  One that catered for all kinds of kinks. And all courtesy of Mycroft’s credit card.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are running higher in Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as humorous as the last chapters, sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~

John actually looked forward to going home.  As it turned out, Sherlock wasn’t so much as a spoilt brat as he was just socially inept.  And he was very smart and quite funny, in a morbid sort of way. The fact that he wasn’t too bad on the eyes either was an added bonus, but John wasn’t thinking about that.  At all. Not only twenty-four hours ago he had been hoping to get rid of the guy. Also, there was no possible way that Sherlock would be even remotely interested in John,so, not worth thinking about. 

On his way from work, he grabbed Chinese for dinner again, this time getting the dimsums that Sherlock had hinted at liking and made his way home.  

When he arrived home it was to see Mrs Hudson, sitting on the armchair and Sherlock nowhere to be seen.

He wasn’t prepared for the sensation of his stomach dropping to his feet at the thought that the man had finally felt well enough to go home, and had done so without even letting John know.  His sudden feeling of disappointment must have shown on his face because Mrs Hudson stood up, tutting.

“Don’t you worry dear.  Your little domestic wasn’t enough to drive your young man away.”

John was too relieved to hear that Sherlock was still about, to realise that Mrs Hudson had referred to Sherlock as _his_ _young man_.

“He’s just nipped to the loo.  He seems to be healing well” she noted.  “You two will be up and getting up to all sorts of things in no time.”

“I don’t think he’ll…” John didn’t get any further into telling his landlady that once Sherlock’s ankle was healed he would probably go home and never grace John with his presence again.

“Just be a dear and keep the noise down” and she patted John’s cheek lovingly as she walked past.  “It’s not something I need to put up with, not at my age,” and then she was gone, out the door and on her way down to her flat.

John didn’t get time to think too much on his landlady’s misinterpretation of his and Sherlock’s relationship for Sherlock took that moment to exit the bathroom.  A few seconds later and he was limping into the living room. He stopped and smiled at John. John smiled back.

“You’re moving on your own” he said, when he realised he was probably looking like a loon, just standing there grinning and quickly went to place the takeaway bags on the coffee table before going over to assist Sherlock the rest of the way to the couch.

He half expected Sherlock to brush him away, but he offered up his arm for John to take and John was happy, that despite his ability to move around, he still wanted John to help him.

“It must be your wonderful doctoring” Sherlock replied with a grunt as he lowered himself to the couch.

Without any thought about it, John helped Sherlock swivel around and lifted his leg back onto the cushions, which had been reduced to a pile of two.

“It was my specialty, in uni, swollen ankles” John said with a smile as he stepped back and went about sorting out their dinner.

“Spraining them or fixing them?” Sherlock asked and John let out a huff of laughter.

“Can’t say I had ever sprained someone’s ankle before yours.  Plenty of wrists, but never an ankle.”

“You sprained wrists?”

“When you need to disarm someone coming quickly at you with a knife and all you have at your disposal is these...” and he held up his hands, giving his fingers a little wiggle.

Sherlock looked at him, as if summing him up and again, just like that first time, John felt that he didn’t mind.

“You, Doctor Watson, seem like a handy fellow to have around.”

John passed a box of beef and black bean to Sherlock and a pair of chopsticks.  “I have my moments” he replied, pulling the dimsums out of the bag and placing them where Sherlock could reach them.

~o~

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, the watermark standing out dark against the white in the dim light of the living room.  He should try and sleep. It wasn’t like there was much else to do. His emails had been disappointingly void of anything remotely interesting and he still wasn’t game enough to turn his phone on.  He knew the instant that he did, his brother would know exactly where he was. As it was, he was surprised the pompous arse hadn’t found him ther yet. It wouldn’t take much longer, especially once he realised his credit card had been used to pay for a porn website.

Sherlock had been at Baker street for three days.  What he had assumes was going to be a boring, yet safe haven had turned into a rather delightful holiday.  Sure, he could do without the pain in his ankle (which wasn’t even half as bad as it was) and yes, he was sick of looking at the same things every day, but the company was welcoming and he was, despite his initial judgement of the situation, enjoying himself.  Even the the horrid things John liked to watch on the telly were growing on him.

Sherlock let out a sigh and flexed his ankle.  The twinge was only small, and he let out another sigh.  He should be happy that the pain was receding. He should be thrilled that he could get up and move around without barely a limp.  But the thought left a twisted knot in his stomach. 

It is why, whenever John or Mrs Hudson were around, he exaggerated the limp.   He didn’t know why he did this.  He could lie to himself and say that it was because he didn’t want to return back to his brothers house, but that wasn't not it.  He knew that wasn't it. 

It was something else and it bothered him that he didn’t know what it was.  All he knew was that whenever he thought of telling John that he could probably go home he felt a bit panicky and then he remembered the way John laughed and he felt calmer again.  He would then tell himself that it could wait another day, the leaving. He could survive one more night on the couch. He had thought about slipping into Johns bed while he was asleep but he had a feeling that that would be classed as a bit not good.  Sherlock wouldn’t mind (and that thought bothered him somewhat too) but he was sure that John would have words to say about it. And probably very loud ones at that.

Sherlock let his eyes close in preference over sighing again.  He needed to get ahold of himself. He needed to push his feelings aside.  He had to resign himself to the fact that he was going to have to go back to Mycroft’s because, no matter how well he and John were getting on now, Baker Street was not a permanent thing.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long to post, but I have been quite unwell theses past weeks and writing any more than a few minutes at a time was very much a gigantuan effort but since I am starting to feel a bit better I thought I would edit this chapter and post while I was having a good day. Thank you all for still sticking with this and I hope the chapter was worth the wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally makes an appearance.

~~~~~~~~~~

John looked around at the warehouse he had been dropped off in.  He had no idea where the warehouse was, but he knew that if he decided to leg it out of there, it would take a while to walk back home.  Especially with five bags of groceries.

As a general rule, John didn’t get into unknown vehicles with unknown people to be driven to unknown locations, (trust issues and all), but John knew when he was being threatened and to be fair, it had been a very polite threat.

He also knew that, if it came down to it, he could easily take down the arsehole that was leaning on the umbrella smiling with a creepy, self-satisfied smirk that rubbed John the wrong way.  He could even use him as a hostage, should the woman or the driver in the car be carrying a weapon. The good thing about Johns jumpers was that they made people underestimated him. A lot.

The man with the umbrella levelled John with a calculating stare, that looked eerily familiar, before he spoke. “You are aware that you currently have a recently recovering drug addict sleeping in your home?”  John thought that it was an unusual way to open a secret meeting, but to be fair, this was the first secret meeting he had ever actually partaken in, so he didn’t have much of a reference.

“I’ve bunked with worse” he responded, looking around.  The bad news was that there was only 2 exits. One was blocked by Mr Umbrella,  the other was the way they came in. The good news was that there wasn’t anywhere anyone could be hiding with a rifle aimed at him.  

“Hmmm, yes. I suppose you have” There was that calculating stare again and John knew exactly why it felt so familiar to have it bestowed upon him.

“You’re related to Sherlock?”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at John making the connection.

“Obviously not his father, you’re what, five, six years older than him?”

“Seven.”

“Still too young.  Could be a cousin, you don’t look terribly alike, but this all seems a bit extreme for someone not immediately related, which means you must be the brother he mentioned.”

“He mentioned me?”  The man sounded skeptical.

The mention during their conversation that morning had been brief but very memorable.

“Only in passing and only to say that you were a completely useless, interfering, Mummy’s boy.  I’m starting to see it.”

The skeptical look fell away and an unimpressed but knowing one took its place, along with a very resigned sigh.  “I suppose it was too much to hope my brother may have matured, just a bit in his few days away.”

John just offered a noncommittal shrug.  He didn’t feel like pointing out how very wrong the brothers own actions were.  At least now he knew he wasn’t in any real danger.

“Doctor Watson, I am willing to pay you a substantial amount of money.”

“No” John said instantly.  

“You haven’t heard the conditions, nor the amount.”

“That’s fine, the answer is still no.”

“All I want is a daily update on my brothers…”

“No.  The answer is no.  I don’t care what you want, or how much you want to offer me, the answer is no, so fuck off back to wherever it is you came from.”

“Doctor Watson” the man said, stepping closer to John, a dark look taking over his face.  “You would do well to chose your side wisely.”

John brought his fingers up to his forehead and gave it a gentle rub.  He could feel a headache coming on. It was no wonder Sherlock didn’t call this twat to help him.

“What are you?  Five?  _ Choose a side _ ?!”  John took some pleasure in the affronted look on the mans face. “Look, whatever childhood feud is going on between you and Sherlock is fine by me, just don’t drag me into it, yeah?  Your brother is at my house and is welcome to stay for as long as he needs and no, I am not going to go scurrying to you to dob on him every five minutes. As for Sherlock’s past, well, that is his business.  I’d like to say it was a pleasure meeting you Mr Holmes, but that would be lying. Now, if your car could take me home, I have milk that needs to go in the fridge. Your brother drinks an extraordinary amount of milky tea and coffee.”

~o~

Sherlock didn’t know whether to be furious at his brother or disappointed in himself but as soon as John had told him that he had ‘met’ Sherlock’s brother, Sherlock had no two doubts about what his brother would have discussed.

Sherlock very rarely felt ashamed that other people knew about his drug habit.  So far, the only people he hadn’t been able to look in the eye, while it had been discussed, had been his father and - oddly enough - his aunty Iris.  Now he could add John to that list too.

He was also more than mad at his brother for interfering, even if it had taken him four days to locate who Sherlock was staying with.  

There was verbal silence as John made two cups of tea and placed one in front of Sherlock before settling in the arm chair he favoured.  “Look,” John said and Sherlock didn’t want to have this conversation, wherever it is going. He didn’t want to discuss his downfalls. Not with John.  Not after they had been getting on so well.

“I understand shit happens.  I know all too well about shit happening.” John started.  “I can even sympathise with you about addiction, to a point.”

Sherlock let go a disbelieving snort.  “John, watching your sister struggle through addiction and going through addiction are two different things.”

John sent Sherlock a glare that made Sherlock shut his mouth instantly.

“If you had let me finish” he stated, pointedly.  “When I was in the army, I lost everything I had to gambling.  I came back with all of my life savings blown on poker games. Every time I got R&R I’d go into the closest city and blow anything at whatever game I could find, convinced I could win back what I lost the last time.  I stopped when a mate of mine had to lend me money - a lot of it - to get me out of trouble, so, while I don’t know about being addicted to drugs - or other stimulants - I can, as I said, sympathise to a point with addiction in general.”

Sherlock looked down from his fiddling fingers and up at John.  The man looked as miserable as he had felt just a few moments before, before John had selflessly disclosed a flaw in his character.  He didn’t need to do that, but to make Sherlock feel like less of a failure he had. It was why Sherlock felt like he needed to make things better - to make John feel better.

It was why, without thinking, Sherlock opened his mouth and decided to do something he usually avoided.  He decided to make a joke.

“Of course you lost everything, John.  You have got a rubbish poker face.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock was horrified, especially since his tone had come out less joking and more scathing.  But John, marvellous wonderful John just looked up at Sherlock and, to Sherlocks surprise, laughed and if Sherlock had learnt anything these past four days it was that John Watson’s giggles were infectious, so once the mortification at what he thought was a badly placed joke wore away, he to chuckled.

Once their laughter faded away John sat up straighter in his chair.  “Seriously though, if your brother is the alternative to living here, then you are welcome to stay as long as you like.  I mean it.”

Sherlock willed himself not to blush.  No one had ever preferred his company over his brothers.  His brother at least knew how to act like he fit in with the general population.  Sherlock had the social (and apparently, sometimes verbal) filter of a small child.  He hoped he was successful. 

“Thank you John.  And for the record, next time -when Mycroft offers -take the money.  We can split it.”

It was then that Sherlock decided that he really liked making John laugh.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson is shocked at toes, Mycroft makes another appearance, John won't take any shit and Sherlock shares a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, another chapter *shocked face on*.   
> Apologies for taking so long, but apparently getting back to good health takes a hell of a lot longer than falling sick in the first place.   
> But, here it is, all shiny and new and bringing the boys closer together.

~~~~~~~~~~

**Currently incapacitated.**

**Sending someone to pick up**

**anything you have. SH**

That was the first message Sherlock sent when he realised he couldn’t sit in this flat for too much longer without going mad, yet reluctant to leave.  If he left, there would be no reason for him to return. 

After a couple more text messages with a third party, he sent another one to the original recipient.

**Expect someone, in twenty minutes,**

**going by the name of Olly.  He will**

**take whatever you have.  SH**

Less than an hour later Mrs Hudson was ushering up one of the most trampiest looking men, being very polite and ignoring the smell.  Sherlock wasn’t so polite.

“At least use some of it to get some soap” he said, holding out a £50 note in exchange for the styrofoam box Olly was carrying.

“Will do” he replied and turned and made his way out of the flat without another word.

“What have you got there, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asked curiously as Sherlock hobbled over to the kitchen table and placed the box on top of it.  

Sherlock opened the lid and pulled out the plastic bag inside, a smile lighting up his face.  Molly had done well.

“Oh goodness” Mrs hudson gasped.  “Toes” and she quickly turned and scurried away, not to be seen until later that afternoon.

Unfortunately, this time, she came up with something truly unpleasant.

“Five days, brother, your losing your touch.”  Sherlock didn’t even bother looking up from the knuckle he had just exposed on some persons former thumb.  

“It only took me two days, brother and does Doctor Watson know that you have turned his kitchen table into a makeshift laboratory bench.”

Finally, Sherlock placed the tweezers and the thumb on the table and turned to face his brother, giving him a scrutinising once over.  “It took you three and a half, nearly four days to locate me and I’m sure John wouldn’t mind at all what I am doing to his kitchen table.  He hardly uses it.”

“Well, I am sure it has been pure heaven for you.  But, Sherlock, the fun is over. It is time to come home now.”

Sherlock turned his back on his brother once more.  He knew this time would come, and if Sherlock didn’t leave on his own free will, his brother would either use force or call Mummy, but Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to make it easy.

“No, not quite yet.  I think I’ll stay here a bit longer.”  Sherlock picked up the tweezers and a scalpel and set to work cutting away more flesh from the digit.  His brother was silent for a blissful eight seconds.

“I do believe I have wasted enough time.  Don’t make me force you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock dropped the instruments in his hand and whipped around to deliver some scathing comment towards his brother, but someone beat him to it.

“I do believe Sherlock said he was staying here, Mycroft.  So since this is such a waste of your time, I guess you had better leave.”

Mycroft turned to face John and all Sherlock could do was watch the verbal sparring between his brother and his new found friend.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, I see you have returned home early from work.”

“And I see you are still being creepy, now would you like a cup of tea, if not, you know the way out.”

Mycroft gave John one of his pinched smiles and then went to sit in the armchair that Mrs Hudson favoured.  “Tea would be lovely.”

Sherlock scowled at his brother and then at John.  What was he playing at.

John ignored Sherlocks scowl and went to make the tea, eyeing Sherlocks fingers on the table with a mild look of distaste as he walked past.

With the tea made, John carried three cups into the living room and then came and helped Sherlock over to his usual perch on the couch.

“Now” John said, making himself comfortable in his usual chair.  “How has your day been, Mycroft?”

Mycroft took a sip of the tea and a small grimace stole over his face.  Sherlock smirked as he sipped his own tea. Unlike Mycroft he didn’t care if he was drinking PG tips or Da-Hong Pao, so long as it was at least one quarter milk and had three sugars in it.

“Doctor Watson, I am sure you are aware that I didn’t come here to make small talk.”

“No, you came here to force Sherlock to go back to yours but since he, a fully grown man, is not willing to do so, I figured the topic was sorted completely and therefore not warranting any further discussion.”

Sherlock felt a ball of warmth bloom in his stomach at listening to John stand up for him, and to Mycroft no less.  No one ever stood up to Mycroft. John was either truly brave or unbelievably stupid.

“And where do you suppose he go, if not home?”

“Right here, where he has been for a few nights already. Unless of course, he would rather go somewhere else, then…”

“...No” Sherlock interjected, but neither person paid attention to him.

“...he is welcome here as long as he likes.”

“Here, in your one-bedroom home?  And where would he sleep? He can’t keep sleeping on the couch.”  Mycroft didn’t wait for an answer, he just continued to talk with that sinister smile he got, whenever he knew he had his opponent cornered, on his stupid, smug face.  “I suppose there is always the third floor but legally, that can’t be rented out as there is no living space with adequate ventilation. Unless of course, renovations have been made without the correct council approval.  Now, that would be unfortunate if Mrs Hudson were to get a rather hefty fine.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the way Johns shoulders tensed and a hard look came into his eyes.

“He can sleep in my bed” John replied, rather firmly and Sherlocks stomach did a little funny twist but probably for different reasons that Mycroft’s face did the same.  “It’s a big bed. Plenty big enough for the two of us.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but he didn’t get very far.

“And” John said, placing his tea cup on the coffee table in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest.  “If you ever threaten Mrs Hudson again I will personally shove your umbrella so far up your arse not even a surgical team will be able to remove it, now, how has your day been, Mycroft?”

Sherlock could not stop the very pleased, gleeful grin that took over his mouth, not that anyone was looking at him.  Mycroft was too busy gaping like a fish and John was once more picking up his cup and taking a drink as if something truly wonderful and extraordinary hadn’t just taken place.

“Very productive” Mycroft finally managed to get out and then the next ten minutes were spent with everyone sipping tea and speaking in small sentences before Mycroft made a hasty retreat down the stairs after wishing Sherlock and John a good evening.  

It couldn’t have gone better had Sherlock planned it all himself.

~o~

John was sitting with Sherlock on the couch, instead of across from him.  It was a nice feeling, the warmth of the man next to him radiating across, just but it was enough.  The remains of the ravioli they had had for tea were sitting on the coffee table in front of them and the TV was showing Antique Roadshow. Sherlock was guessing 3 out of 4 correctly with a 10 percent margin for error.  John was rubbish at guessing the prices but he was quite happy to announce when something was vulgar. 

John thought, not for the first time since Sherlock appeared in his life, that he would be happy to live like this.  

“Mycroft likes you” Sherlock said out of nowhere, as the host was evaluating a painting of a girl and her dog. “Six thousand, nine hundred pounds.”

“How can you tell?” John asked “It’s not too ugly, but I wouldn’t pay any more than one thousand pounds.”

“John, you wouldn’t pay any more than twenty quid and I can tell because you are still alive.”

John just laughed even though a voice in his head told him he should probably find the thought that Mycroft Holmes could have him killed, quite terrifying.

“Four thousand pounds” the announcer announced.  

“Both wrong” Sherlock said pointlessly and then that was all he said for a while.

When he didn’t offer an estimation on the next two items, John turned to him.  “Is something wrong?” he asked. He had thought they were having a good time (well as good as you could have, sitting on the couch watching Antique Roadshow) but Sherlock looked worried.

Sherlock shook his head, but a second later blurted out “Did you really mean that I could sleep in your bed?” He looked like he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth and John felt the need to make that look leave Sherlock’s face.

“It’d be a damn site more comfortable than the couch” he said.

John didn’t know why he had offered the use of his bed when Mycroft was there and didn’t know why he was still going along with it but he knew he couldn’t take it back now.  He didn’t want to take it back if he were being honest with himself. 

Sherlock gave a small nod, and no longer looking worried, turned back to the TV, where the host was looking at a very ugly looking jade hair pin from China.

“£8 860 000” Sherlock announced.

“There is no way that hair pin is worth nearly nine mill.”

“Jade is valuable, £2 200 an ounce.”

“It’s a hair pin.  And ugly to boot.”

“It all depend on it’s history.”

“Know a lot about hair products and whatnot.”

It was a dig at Sherlock’s hair, which - in Johns opinion - despite sitting on a couch for five days, still looked good. Sherlock smirked and ducked out of the way as John went to ruffle his hair.

“...9 000 000 pound” the announcer told the unsuspecting owner of the ugly hairpin, a pretty blonde secretary.  Instantly she started screaming and John winced.

“Fuck, I’m in the wrong business” he said, sitting back against the couch.

Sherlock just chuckled and it seemed everything was okay again.

~o~

Sherlock was nervous.  He shouldn’t be. He was just sleeping in a bed with John.  But the last time he shared a bed with someone, he had been high and woken up with some rather impressive whip marks down his back.  (She had certainly known what she was doing.)

John had gone to bed over an hour ago, but Sherlock had claimed he needed to think.  It hadn’t been a lie.

This was new territory for Sherlock.  When he had decided to lodge on the Doctors couch, he had never expected to actually like the guy who lived there.  And what was more he  _ never _ expected to develop...feelings for him either.  And to think, he had tried to escape when John had been snoring loudly, completely unawares that he had a stranger camping on his couch.

This thought made Sherlock feel worse.  Although John had warmed up to Sherlock, a hell of a lot more than other people did, it was a far stretch to think that the man would want anything more than what they had already developed.  In fact, Sherlock was sure that, while John had had experiences with men in the past, he was more or less attracted to women.

But then, he had invited Sherlock to share his bed.  So, maybe…

Sherlock let out a quiet, yet frustrated growl.  Too many mixed signals and not enough data to draw from.  Then there was the possibility that he was projecting his own feelings (bloody sentiment!) onto the whole mess, giving it all a rose coloured tint.  

Sherlock dropped his face into his hands and sighed.  This - sitting here alone and dwelling on it all - was doing nothing to help him quell his nerves.  If anything, it was making them worse. 

Deciding that there was no point in continuing his excogitating, Sherlock stood up and, slowly but surely, limped to the bathroom to change into his borrowed (and too short) pyjamas and brush his teeth.  He then made his way to the bedroom, determined not to sleep on the couch again. He was a grown man. He could do this.

When he reached the room, it was to find that John had left the bedside lamp on for him.  In the dim light, Sherlock could see that John was on the left side of the bed, facing in, and curled in a semi foetal position, his hands tucked up under his chin.  The softest of snores were puffing out from between his barely parted lips.

Being careful not to make too much noise or to jostle the bed too much, Sherlock pulled back the quilt and slid in between the sheets as gracefully as he could.  Once he was settled, he reached over and snapped off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness. This served only to make Sherlock more aware of his close proximity to John.  In John’s bed. 

Not sure of the protocol for sharing a bed with someone you don’t intend to have sex with and sober, Sherlock tried lying as straight and still as possible, keeping as much to his side as he could without falling out of bed.

After about three minutes he realised that he was never going to be able to fall asleep, so he rolled to his right, with his back to John.  This was worse. Sherlock had always hated facing outwards. When he was younger, there was too much to observe when he could see the room, and it took longer for him to go to sleep, so he had made a habit of never facing the outside of the bed,  It was a habit that had followed him through into adulthood.

Sherlock rolled onto his left side.  This made him even more aware of John, even though there was practically the entire mattress between them.  Plus, it was uncomfortable. 

For the next seventeen minutes, Sherlock wriggled around, trying to find the best way to sleep and throughout it all, John didn’t stir once.  

“Well, bugger it then” Sherlock muttered, and no longer concerned that John would wake up, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, and spread himself out as much as he could.  This just so happened to end up with one of his ankles over Johns shin and an arm over the other man’s waist, but Sherlock didn’t care. He was comfortable and John was none the wiser and within minutes, Sherlock was fast asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a bed, a John and a Sherlock - I am sure you can figure the rest out.  
> Oh, and then there is some fluffy talks.

~~~~~~~~~~

John woke up, cocooned in warmth and hard. But that was okay, because apparently his cocoon was also hard.

Frowning, he tried to remember what happened the previous night.  He had gone to bed alone, and he didn’t remember waking up at all, which was unusual since there was now someone, Sherlock, in his bed, plastered to Johns back and holding him in place with both his arm and leg.  As a general rule, John noticed when someone was in his bed, but he hadn’t even stirred when Sherlock joined him nor when he decided to latch onto him and to be honest, John couldn’t say that he minded in the slightest.  

Knowing that he didn’t have to be anywhere, John refused to open his eyes and instead, relaxed back into the warmth that was his sleeping bedmate, enjoying the feeling of being held and the tiny puffs of warm air that were ghosting over the back of his neck.  A small, satisfied sigh pushed through his lips. He would take the time to feel guilty over this small indulgence later on. 

John was almost dozing off again when he felt a cold nose nudge the side of his neck, just below his ear.

“Since clearly you don’t mind, and obviously I don’t mind, should we do something about this?” Came Sherlock’s sleepy voice as he gently rolled his hips, nudging his erection into John’s thigh just that tiny bit harder.

John’s initial reaction was to feel embarrassed that he had been caught out, revelling in the feeling of Sherlock against him, but then John’s brain comprehended what Sherlock was saying. 

“Who says I don’t mind?” John asked.  Damned if he was going to make this easy on the man.

“When you woke, a few minutes ago, you tensed when you realised what you were feeling against your thigh.  Then, deciding that you didn’t actually mind and probably figured since I wasn’t moving, that I was asleep, you relaxed back into it, even going as far as giving you backside a little wiggle.”

“I most certainly did not wiggle.”

“There was definitely a wiggle.”

John refused to argue his point since, in the brief time of knowing Sherlock, he had learnt that the man was stubborn and John certainly wasn’t going to give in and admit that he had wiggled.  There was no wiggle. So, instead of arguing further, he answered Sherlocks question, albeit with a question of his own. 

“Well, since you don’t mind and I don’t mind, what do you suppose we do about this?” he asked, rolling his hips back against the other mans.

A small gasp left Sherlocks lips and then his hand, the one  on Johns stomach, slid down and cupped Johns semi. “I have a few ideas.” 

John bit his lip to stop the groan and tried valiantly not to roll up into the hand. God, it had been ages since he let anyone else touch him like this.  He had almost forgotten the sensations that a hand, that wasn’t his, could pull from the body. “I’d certainly love to hear these ideas” John replied once he had more control over himself, even if his voice was a bit huskier than he had planned.

“I prefer a more practical demonstration” Sherlock whispered into his ear and then rolled John onto his back and straddled his hips, in one smooth move.

“I like practical…” John was cut off by Sherlock slotting his lips over Johns.  

~o~

Sherlock had woken up after the best night’s sleep he had had in a long time.  He was warm, comfortable and well rested and then, to his utter mortification, he realised why he was so warm and well rested.  He was just trying to figure out a way to not let his panic break through to the surface when he heard a small, yet clearly satisfied sigh, come from the man in front of him (and caged in Sherlocks limbs) and then John leant back against Sherlocks body and his hips gave a small, but definite wiggle.  ( _There was absolutely a wiggle_.) It was that wiggle that boosted Sherlocks confidence and motivated him to carry out a sudden impulse to address the elephant that was in the bed.

Once he had posed his question to John he immediately expected John to tell him to leave.  What he didn’t expect was for John to flirt back and then to actually agree to something more physical.  

If Sherlock wasn’t a  ~~ vain ~~ proud man he would have panicked, but now that he had made a rather suggestive suggestion to John, he couldn’t back down now.  

That was why Sherlock had pulled John onto his back and then straddled the man. John was still talking.  That was just not on. If John was talking, he was too coherent and thus, more likely to notice that Sherlock was, in actual fact, not at all as confident as his posturing made him out to be.  Sherlock needed to up his game, therefore, he kissed John, effectively shutting him up.

When John tried to take control of the kiss, Sherlock relocated his lips, moving them across Johns jaw and down his neck, nipping at the skin, just above the shoulder.  This seemed to get the point across, that Sherlock was in charge, as John’s hands stopped trying to pull Sherlock’s head back up to his and instead, tilted his own head back to give Sherlock more access to his neck. If the uptake of Johns breaths and the further hardening of his penis was anything to go by (and Sherlock was sure that it, indeed was) then John was enjoying himself so far. Sherlock continued his mouths journey onto the shoulder, only to be stopped when his lips ran out of skin.

“Get this off” Sherlock practically snarled, pulling at the already stretched neckline of Johns t-shirt with his teeth, frustrated at having to stop his exploration of Johns body.  He allowed John to push him back, to give himself more room to obey the demand and watched as John reached for the hem of his top. 

“You too” John managed to get out as he struggled out of his top, the action made all the more awkward with Sherlock still sitting on top of him.  Sherlock wasted no time in shucking the borrowed t-shirt and throwing it away. Once he was naked from the waist up, he was somewhat dismayed to see that John was still fighting with his own top.  Displaying the patience he reserved for anything that got in his way, Sherlock reached down and yanked John’s t-shirt over his head, reflecting that maybe next time (would there be a next time?) he would get John to sit up first.

“Lubricant” Sherlock demanded once John was in the same state of dress as himself, also sending Johns top the way his own had gone, mere seconds before.  John automatically looked to the drawer of his bedside table and without another word, Sherlock scrambled off of him, and over to the draw to obtain the requested item.  In that time it took him to locate the almost full bottle and turn back to face John, John had not lain on the bed idle. The man had used the time (and the brief moment of being unencumbered by six foot of consulting detective) to finish disrobing, and Sherlock had turned, just in time, to see him kicking his pyjama bottoms to the end of the bed.  

Sherlock, stayed kneeling where he was on the bed and took in a long look at what was on offer in front of him.  His gaze raked over John taking in every small detail, cataloguing everything he saw - the muscles and the skin texture to the scars that littered his skin, ranging from small and harmless to the great big obvious ones.  He took in the different tan lines and hair growth to the edge of the tattoo that was on John’s tricep, just visible from where Sherlock was sitting. He also noted that John, looked a lot more stiff (no pun intended) than he had before and his hands were no longer by his sides.  Clearly he was, for some reason, ashamed of how he looked. Ridiculous.

“Don’t” Sherlock said, just as John went to reach for the blankets that had been tossed aside.  Sherlock was vaguely aware of John studying him as his eyes followed the trail of hair that lead from Johns navel to his groin.

John’s hands haltered in their movements, but didn’t drop back to his sides so Sherlock kept talking, his eyes not diverting from their path down Johns body.

“Don’t think you need to hide.  Trust me, when I say, You have nothing...” and his lips quirked when his eyes stopped on Johns cock, still twitching to fullness, “... _ Nothing _ to be ashamed of.”

Sherlock’s obvious approval seemed to be enough to bolster Johns confidence as he moved his hands back down to the mattress and seemed to relax somewhat.

“Do I get to see if you, also, have nothing to be ashamed of?”  John asked, clearly using his cockiness to mask his nervousness at being on display.

Finally Sherlock was able to tear his eyes away from Johns body and looked up at the man’s face, a challenging quirk to his eyebrow and then casually dropped the pyjama pants he was wearing, to the floor.

“So,  _ Captain Watson _ ” Sherlock asked, spreading his arms out, showing everything he had to offer for Johns perusal.  “Do I pass your approval?”

Sherlock grinned sinfully at Johns stuttered response of “ _Very yes good_ ”  and he climbed back onto the bed and straddled Johns thighs once more.

“Glad to hear it” Sherlock murmured, his confidence bolstered that bit more at Johns obvious obeisance and then set to work destroying Johns composure that bit more. 

Clearly, John was too busy trying to suck Sherlocks tongue into his mouth, as far as it would go, to apparently realise that Sherlocks hands seemed to be preoccupied.  It seemed that he didn’t even hear the click of the plastic bottle, nor the thunk as it hit the floor after Sherlock had tossed it aside. 

It only seemed apparent that Sherlock was ready to move things along when he pulled away from the rather filthy kiss and gasped out a surprised  _ “Oh, Jesus, fuck” _ as Sherlock wrapped a well lubricated hand around his now very hard cock.

~o~

“ _ Hnng _ ” John let out as the long fingers that were wrapped around him and gave a gentle tug. To be frank, he wasn’t sure he could remember any other words other than  _ hnng _ at that point in time.  Sherlocks fingers, just like the rest of him, were empyreal.  

Normally, John would not have laid back and let the other person in his bed take control.  John liked being in control. He was good at it and his partners generally appreciated him being in control, but it had been so long since he had experienced another person touching him, wanting him, this way, and even longer, still, since he had just let go and handed the reins over to another person.  This time, his body and mind were on board with whatever Sherlock had planned. 

_ This time. _

Sherlocks fingers were firm around him, but his movements were slow, as if slowly getting a feel for what John liked.  The more encouraging noises John made, the faster or firmer Sherlocks strokes became. 

Finally, John could feel the orgasm in him starting to build.  In his current state, it wouldn’t take long for it to break and he didn’t want to do it on his own.  He wanted Sherlock to also break with him.

“ _You, Sherl...god… want you_.”  It wasn’t easy articulating, not when Sherlocks other hand was now joining in on the act and doing some rather wonderful things to Johns nipples.

At John’s plea, Sherlock stopped playing with Johns chest and used that arm to brace himself as he leant over John.  He also let go of Johns cock which would have made John whine had it not brought Sherlocks own cock into contact with his.  

At the feeling of the other man’s length against his own, John arched up and moaned, bringing his own hand to attempt to wrap around the two of them.  His fingers didn’t reach around but he didn’t care. The feeling was exquisite. It became sublime when Sherlock joined his hand with Johns.

John tried, he truly did, to keep his eyes on Sherlock, to watch the man come undone but soon it became too much and all John could do was throw his head back, eyes clenched against the pure sensation of pleasure, and moan out something that may or may not have been an actual word as he bucked, almost violently into their joined hands.  Sherlocks own panting could barely be heard over the blood roaring in his ears but the loud “ _ JOHN _ ” was definitely audible as John was vaguely aware of another splash of warmth covering his hand and stomach. And then, without any warning, the man above him dropped down on top of John, and other than a breathless “ _ oomph _ ” from John, John couldn’t be too arsed to care.

~o~

Sherlock had never felt so content.  

He had been worried, when he first propositioned John, and in such a blatant manner. He wouldn’t have propositioned him at all if it hadn’t been for the little wiggle (yes, there was a damn wiggle) and the small but happy sigh that had left John’s mouth.  If it hadn’t been for those two things, Sherlock would have been happy to feign sleep for a bit longer until John tried to discreetly extract himself from Sherlocks grasp (which had surprised him, when he woke up, more than he would ever admit) or until he had to roll back over in his feigned sleep and act as if the whole thing hadn’t happen.  But the wiggle had sparked up a bit of over-confidence in him that Sherlock hadn’t ever felt, whilst sober, when it came to human interaction. But John reacted in his favour and therefore he couldn’t back down. His pride wouldn’t allow it, to suddenly seem less in control and to let John take over. It was a good thing he hadn’t either, the sex was great.  And now he felt marvellous. Brilliant. Amazing. Thoroughly shagged out and blissfully unaware of anything not happening right there, in the bedroom. In a nutshell, everything was perfect. 

Until his brain kicked back online.  It was then that the doubt started to creep in.  Was this a one time thing? Or was it a  _ thing _ thing?  Did John want to continue this relationship with him, or was Sherlock just John’s stepping stone to getting back into the dating game?  Would he just be another number to add to the little black book?

Sherlock needed to know.  Knowing would determine his next movements.  The more likely, but less desired, would see Sherlock getting out of bed, dressing, and not coming back to Baker Street again.

The more preferred outcome, but less likely to occur (should history be noted) would see Sherlock not letting John out of bed for  _ at least _ another twenty four hours.

Not knowing how to just ask John straight out, without sounding like a pining teenager, Sherlock decided to go the roundabout way.  

“There is an old Japanese saying:  _ If you saved someone’s life you are responsible for him for the rest of your life _ .”

John made a sound, like Sherlock had stopped him from dozing off and then murmured “I didn’t save your life, I wrapped your ankle.“ 

“I’m not talking about the ankle, John.”

Slowly, John sat up. Dislodging Sherlock from his comfortable position, pushing out a small grunt of displeasure from Sherlock.

“What are you getting at, Sherlock?”

“I don’t take drugs because I like being high” Sherlock started slowly.  Sherlock wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but he was sure he could work it around to what he was trying to say.  Eventually. “I take them because they stop the noise in my head. Most of the time, the noise is tolerable, ignorable. I can find a task that drowns the noise out, or at least, reduce it to white noise. But sometimes, it’s not possible and I find myself wanting the silence again.  So I take drugs. Well, I used to.”

There was a silence and it was not lost on Sherlock that he still hadn’t got his point across.  He looked away from John to the cupboard across the room, trying to figure out where he was going with this line of speech.

“Okay.”  Clearly, John wasn’t sure where Sherlock was going with his little speech either.

“I don’t have that problem when I am here.  With you” Sherlock said slowly as he looked back at John, hoping the man would get his meaning.  He didn’t.

“As wonderful as it would be, I am fairly certain that that is not how addiction works, unfortunately.”

“John.  You are ruining a perfectly good moment.  Please shut up.”

“Yes, Sherlock” and with that, John laid back down and pulled Sherlock back on top of him.  Both of them winced at the mess that was still between them, but neither did anything about it.

There was silence for a while and Sherlock tried to think of another way to voice his concerns on the nature of their relationship, when John spoke.  

“So, what was all that about anyway?” he asked, letting his hands resume the up and down motion on his back that he had stopped when he sat up. “All that channeling Confucius and what not.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but only half-heartedly.  “Confucius was Chinese, the quote was Japanese.”

“Details, Sherlock.”

Again, there was silence while Sherlock thought.  Nothing helpful was coming to mind so he then decided to do something novel.  He asked straight out.  “Will you throw out that little black book? “

“You know, I think I will” John replied, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.  “I do believe that I have found the right person to get me back in the game and keep me there.”

Sherlock couldn’t have stopped the smile that spread across his face if he had tried, and he certainly didn’t try.  In fact, he spent the rest of the day showing John just how happy he was.

  
  



End file.
